


the timing is right, the stars are aligned

by mostlyunstablefangirl



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, High School AU, M/M, Modern AU, Prom, prom au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 15:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4528131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlyunstablefangirl/pseuds/mostlyunstablefangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Monty needs a prom date. Clarke has a poster. Except, her poster doesn't quite reach its intended audience.</p>
<p>"Lexa stares at Clarke for a moment. She swallows thickly, and is that Lexa Woods losing her nerve?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	the timing is right, the stars are aligned

**Author's Note:**

> My painfully awkward trash babies. Hopefully I provided enough description to make you fall in love with them again. Also very proud of my AU skills this time.
> 
> Title from the song "Past Lives" by BORNS. Which makes me think of every Clexa reincarnation fic I've ever read.

Clarke unceremoniously dumps her backpack and art bag on a desk in Calculus, rifling through the tote of sketchbooks and various pencil pouches for one thing in particular.

She’s aware of a cluster of students forming to chat in the aisle in front of her, probably beginning to stare at her, but she pays them no mind. She’s on a mission. Monty needs a prom date and she’s ready with a kickass promposal.

Except she was in no way prepared for the multitude of fragile and oddly sized objects she has to carry along with her school supplies in order to make this thing happen.

Ah, man. She needs -- but she doesn’t want to crush the flowers --

She sort of blindly thrusts the bouquet of roses at the nearest student -- one of the idle conversationalists at the desk in front of hers. “Will you just--? Thanks.” She finds it, wedged between two watercolor pads. “Aha!”

She pulls out her painted “PROM?” sign. It unfolds like an accordion and spills out of the bag almost gracefully, fluttering to the ground with a soft _thwack_.

Clarke bends to pick up the other end, turning triumphantly to her temporary floral assistant.

Oh.

Fuck.

The person holding her flowers is Lexa Woods. Lexa Woods, Ground High’s pride and joy...and its coldest bitch.

And perhaps also the subject of Clarke’s last five sketchbook drawings.

The star soccer player and to-be Harvard student is kind of striking in a totally terrifying, could-eat-you-alive-if-you-alter-her-Powerpoint-slides sort of way.

Clarke isn’t one to take other people’s shit, so she usually holds her own in staring matches with the severe brunette and isn’t easily intimidated by her often abrasive manner. But she’ll admit she’s in a tough spot now, in such close proximity to Lexa and having shoved flowers hastily into her hands.

Okay, and maybe Clarke thinks Lexa is the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen, and she likes Lexa’s drawl in class that implies that she thinks the answer should be obvious, and Lexa’s ass also _maybe_ looks really great in soccer shorts. Maybe.

Lexa stares at Clarke for a moment. She swallows thickly, and is that Lexa Woods _losing her nerve_? “Yes,” she finally says.

What?

Clarke then recognizes her recent biology partner, Lincoln. An enormous football player, and one of Lexa’s friends, he materializes over Lexa’s shoulder. “Lexa, you going to prom with Princess? Awesome!” He offers a hand, stretching his arm around Lexa’s shoulder with comical ease.

Lexa distractedly bats sideways to reciprocate his high-five as Clarke freezes.

She realizes how the way she’s holding the poster, the way Lexa is clutching the bouquet nervously, could all be read. She opens her mouth to stutter a clarification, but wait.

Lexa said yes. She said _yes_.

“Um, so,” Lincoln says. “Do you want me to take your guys’ picture or something?”

Lexa digs out her phone in an uncharacteristically flustered manner and he takes it, chuckling. “Easy, Commander.”

The brunette shoots him a glare, but there’s somehow affection behind it.

Then Lexa sidles up to Clarke -- shuffles, really -- still holding the bouquet up to her chest. A dumbfounded Clarke tries to be helpful, stepping an inch closer.

Lexa’s hand slips around her waist and Clarke nearly falls over. Lexa is trying to school her features into a neutral expression, but she’s flushing and she doesn’t seem to be breathing as often as she should.

“Okay, guys, smile. Try to look less awkward.”

They smile for the camera, Clarke still lost in how surreal this situation seems. Lexa was probably just being nice, right? Maybe Lexa was flattered, maybe--?

Lincoln brings the phone to their faces so they can see their photo. Clarke inhales sharply at Lexa’s smile, nervous but wide and reaching her eyes. Clarke doesn’t think she looks bad herself, either, maybe like a bit of a goofball but in the happiest way possible.

When Lincoln holds Lexa’s phone out, they realize it’s time to part, and Lexa slowly extricates herself from the curve of Clarke’s waist.

“Um,” Lexa says, retrieving a piece of paper from Lincoln’s desk and bending over to scribble on it.

(Lincoln catches Clarke’s gaze skimming down over Lexa’s back. He smirks at her and she flushes hotly before looking away.)

Lexa straightens and holds the paper out to Clarke. “Um, text me.”

“Okay,” Clarke manages before Lexa slips away to sit down in her desk a few rows up.

* * *

 

Octavia spews water across the lunch table.

“Dude, I thought they only did spittakes in sitcoms,” Jasper mutters, swiping at his forearm.

“You’re _what_?”

Clarke shrugs. “I’m kind of going to prom with Lexa.”

“Woods?” Raven gasps.

“Is there another?” Jasper asks, tone mildly annoyed.

“And how did this happen?” Octavia demands, leaning towards Clarke. This means, however, that her chest is pressed up against the table and Jasper’s exasperation dissolves as he goggles for a moment. Without breaking gaze with Clarke, Octavia reaches out and slaps the boy’s cheek.

“Ow!”

Clarke hesitates. She can’t very well tell Octavia that she didn’t mean to ask Lexa, because what if word got out that she accidentally asked her date? Would Lexa think she’s an imbecile?

“I just asked,” she says nonchalantly.

She’s also very, very glad that she did not ask Monty, because it turns out he has already asked Jasper. She’s unsure of the nature of their timely coupling, especially with Jasper’s lingering feelings for Octavia, but she’s excited for them.

“Okay, but like,” Raven says in a conspiratorially low tone, “is it romantic? Like, did you make it clear that you have a thing for her?”

Clarke feels her face heat up. None of her friends, however, seem surprised by Raven’s words, just leaning in closer, awaiting an answer. Was her attraction that obvious?

Clarke ducks her head. “I don’t know.”

“Excuse me,” Octavia shrieks, “I’m still hung up on the fact that you asked her and she said yes like a normal person!”

Raven nods. “Right, like. I know you’re hot, Clarke, but that’s some serious skill.”

There’s the rapid patter of footsteps, and then.

“Hey!” Monty gasps, a sudden burst in the lull of the conversation. He’s panting after having skidded to a halt beside Clarke, startling the entire lunch table. “Look what I found on Facebook.”

Octavia snorts. “Facebook, really?”

Clarke squints at his phone. Seeing a familiar flash of color and shapes, her eyes widen and she takes it from his hand.

It’s the picture of Clarke and Lexa, taken by Lincoln. The picture of Lexa smiling with an arm around her.

Lexa posts on Facebook so rarely, usually only collegiate and athletic tidbits that would make the PTO swoon. But she posted this one. Clarke scrolls up to pore over the caption.

**_Lexa Woods_ **

_Going to prom with **Clarke Griffin**! -- with **Clarke Griffin**._

It’s brief and a bit awkward, but enthusiastic -- there’s an exclamation point! -- and Clarke stares for a beat longer than necessary.

“So? You weren’t going to tell us?” Monty hisses.

Octavia sticks out a hand and waggles her fingers urgently. “Lemme see!”

“I just was,” Clarke whines, handing it over. “You weren’t here.”

“Oh, my God!” Octavia cries. “The bitch has a thing for you. She’s smiling and she posted this on Facebook. Holy shit.”

“She probably doesn’t,” Clarke mumbles, reddening again.

“She seems so uptight,” Jasper says. “Who knew she would be in touch with her sexuality?”

“Where did she move here from, again? Before freshman year?” Monty asks.

“By the way, you think your girlfriend could hook me up with Lincoln?” Octavia grins widely at her.

Clarke groans, pushing her lunch away to rest her forehead on the table. “Guys, stop. I have no idea if she likes girls and she’s not my girlfriend.”

They’re silenced by her obvious discomfort, twiddling their thumbs and looking away for a moment.

Then Octavia is back at it, piping up, “Okay, but this picture seems pretty gay.”

* * *

 

Clarke has to put much more thought into prom now that she’s going with Lexa instead of Monty. Before, maybe an old dress would’ve cut it, since she’s not the type to make big deals out of milestones.

But this is Lexa Woods, who’s all about doing things properly, and Clarke can’t help but try to do everything right.

Lying in bed, she gathers up the courage to send a quick text.

_(8:32): Hey, this is Clarke! Do you have a prom dress yet?_

Right after sending it, she mentally slaps herself. She could’ve said any outfit, but of course she’d just assumed that Lexa would want to wear a dress. Idiot. She doesn’t have to stare at the wall in dread for long, because Lexa texts back instantly.

_Lexa (8:33): Yes, actually! It’s cobalt. Do you?_

Clarke lets out a relieved laugh at her specificity with the color.

_(8:33): Not yet! I wanted to see what color you thought I should get._

It takes a minute for Lexa to compose her response, the God-awful dots at the bottom of Clarke’s screen implying that she’s typing.

_Lexa (8:35): You should wear whatever you like. It’s not the end of the world if we don’t match, but if you’re having a hard time deciding, silver or white would look really nice, or something with a dark blue accent color._

_Lexa (8:35): I think we’ll look good together, whatever you decide._

Clarke rubs at her eyes, reading the message over about a dozen times.

For one, Lexa doesn’t care what Clarke wears. In terms of color and, well, Clarke doesn’t think Lexa only meant color by _whatever you like_. And then the second text that Lexa had sent almost as an afterthought Clarke turns over in her mind. What does Lexa mean by “together?” Her chosen wording and sweet attitude makes Clarke’s stomach flutter.

Clarke rolls over onto her stomach and breathes heavily into her pillow.

First things first, Clarke thinks she wants to wear a dress. And she wants to match with Lexa, for reasons she doesn’t understand, but it makes her think of following Lexa wherever she will go and that thought is enough to make her stomach do crazy things again.

She sighs into her pillow again. This means shopping.

* * *

 

Abby is absolutely _thrilled_.

Clarke drifts behind her mother apprehensively from department store to department store. She doesn’t have to speak much, as Abby seems to be as particular as she is, quickly vetoing dresses that Clarke doesn’t think look classy enough to wear next to Lexa anyway.

The only thing is that she’s afraid her mother will find something that fits her color qualifications but is in no way her style or absolutely frumpy.

“So what is she like?” Abby whispers excitedly.

Clarke winces. She doesn’t like questioning. “Um, she’s really smart. Kind of serious sometimes. But really cute about this whole thing.”

“What does she want to do?”

“Pre-law.”

This seems to fuel Abby’s whirlwind of excitement and the brunette is suddenly sweeping Clarke into a little boutique store within the mall, where they’re greeted by a too-chipper attendant.

Abby rattles off what they’re seeking, and Clarke follows wearily.

The boutique owner’s eyes light up, and she leads them to a leather sofa before disappearing into some racks.

She returns with a small selection, to Clarke’s relief.

Clarke quickly shakes her head at the silver dress, anticipating that the color would be a bit too overwhelming on her. She tries on the dark blue with silver beading, but deduces that it’s probably a little too like Lexa’s to be visually pleasing with hers.

Finally, she tries on a strapless number that begins white and ends in a dark blue gradient.

It’s perfect.

Abby smiles like Clarke has never seen her mother smile before and helps her carefully tuck the dress into a garment bag.

* * *

 

Clarke is unsteady on her feet when she rings the doorbell.

There’s some barking within the house that quiets quickly, and then the door swings open abruptly.

A beautiful, though severe-looking, woman with intense dark eyes peers out at her. “You must be Clarke.”

No hello, no pleasantries.

“Yes, hello.” Clarke doesn’t know who the woman is to Lexa, so she doesn’t try to address her by a title, her voice wavering awkwardly at the end.

“Your mother is the surgeon, right? Griffin?”

“Uh, yes.”

“What time will you bring her back?”

“Uh, eleven thirty?”

“What activities do you do?”

“Indra,” Clarke hears from above, shuffles closer to the door to gaze up at the top of the stairwell.

The sight makes her breath catch in her throat.

Lexa smoothly descends, voice laughing as she speaks in a language that Clarke doesn’t understand. “ _Em pleni_.”

And then Lexa’s standing before her, soft and lithe and wonderful in the exact cobalt that Clarke would associate with a tube of oil paint, long brown hair spilling around her shoulders.

She’s smiling, with a touch of shyness in the way her eyes flit away from Clarke’s and back.

Clarke is just mesmerized. She realizes she’s been staring with her mouth parted for a moment and tries to regain some semblance of composure, clearing her throat. She thinks she sees a flicker of amusement cross Indra’s face before disappearing just as quickly as it came.

“You look stunning,” Clarke says, and she should be ashamed with her words and the amount of awe audible in them but she can’t bring herself to care.

Lexa pinks, looking away again briefly, but then taking Clarke in again. “Thank you, Clarke. You are gorgeous.”

Clarke blinks, pleased. Lexa’s words and flustered appearance make her feel soft and pretty, too.

Clarke holds out a plastic box she’s been clutching. “May I?”

Lexa nods, biting her lip, and Clarke fastens the white orchid to her wrist, taking pleasure in the delight that crosses Lexa’s features.

“Thank you.” Then Lexa ducks around the doorway, retrieving a similar box from the nearby table. Clarke’s corsage is made up of orchids too, dyed the perfect shade of blue.

After the awkward, hushed exchange, Clarke extends a hand to help Lexa across the threshold in her heels. Lexa smiles at her nervously, taking it and stepping carefully.

“Enjoy yourself,” Indra says behind her, voice still guarded, but less so.

“Yes, Indra. Be back later, _nomon_.”

The light spilling out of the doorway gradually recedes as the two make their way down the path to the driveway. Clarke is still holding Lexa’s hand as they round the hood of the car to the passenger side.

Clarke holds the door open for Lexa, who blushes profusely and eases herself in, then looks up at Clarke through her eyelashes.

Clarke inhales sharply and gently closes the door.

Clarke learns that Lexa looks beautiful dappled by street lamps and neon signs.

* * *

 

The bassline hums through Clarke’s chest as they walk in.

One of their chaperoning teachers _oohs_ over them for a moment before ushering them to the photographer.

Lexa’s arms are around her waist as the camera flashes and Clarke aches wonderfully for more of Lexa’s touch.

They venture further into the venue, where the lighting is dimmer and the music louder and the space more crowded.

Lexa’s fingers brush hers, then entwine with them and lead her gently into the throng.

Some heads turn, but not unkindly. The gazes aren’t hostile, just curious and sort of...admiring. Lexa was right, they look really good together. Clarke tries to return the favor with appreciative glances at dresses and bowties and about every flavor of shoe in the world.

Then she looks back at her date. Lexa’s hips are moving and Clarke’s heartbeat kicks into high gear.

Clarke’s hands raise, slowly as if asking permission, to skate across Lexa’s bare back -- her dress falls lower there.

Lexa drifts closer, and they’re dancing together to something not quite tasteful but with a heavy beat and everything in Clarke is screaming Lexa right now.

Lexa, Lexa, Lexa.

* * *

 

Their friends arrive shortly after, forming a loose circle. Everyone takes turns dancing with the group, then with their dates.

Lexa is comfortable with her friends, and since Lincoln ended up asking Octavia, their groups blur together. Octavia and Lexa even end up dancing side-by-side, making faces at each other and matching hand motions, laughter drowned out by music.

Then Clarke is in Lexa’s arms and Lexa is a _sexy_ dancer. She knows when to go fast and jump and throw her arms up but also when to move languidly with her back to Clarke, holding the blonde’s hands in her own.

* * *

 

Clarke asks if she wants to get some air. It’s become hot and stifling inside from all the warm bodies, and many of them are uncomfortably sweaty.

Lexa crowds at her back as they walk out the double doors onto the veranda, where a few scattered pairs have also come to rest.

The nature of the music, though slightly quieter outside, changes.

It’s a slow dance song, and they look at each other with uncertainty for a moment before Lexa grasps Clarke again.

They sway gently, Lexa’s hands on Clarke’s back and Clarke’s around Lexa’s neck. Neither of them know where to look, but both are drawn to each other.

“So, um,” Clarke murmurs softly. “Thank you for being my date.”

Lexa does that cute thing where she flushes and looks away. “Thank you for asking me. I didn’t know you were aware that I--oh, nevermind.”

Clarke leans in slightly, enchanted. “Wait, that you what?”

Lexa’s eyes widen and her lips press together for a moment. Her throat bobs. “Um, I didn’t know you knew that I was enamored with you.”

Clarke gapes at her for a moment, forgetting to breathe. Lexa Woods, the stoic, the brooding scholar, just admitted to _liking_ her. “I...didn’t, really. Um, I guess it makes sense since you said yes.”

“That was brave of you, to ask me, then. If you didn’t know.”

Shit. Clarke feels panic rise in her throat. If she doesn’t tell Lexa now, she’ll feel like she’s lying to her. “Yeah, um. About that.”

“Yes?”

“I sort of asked you by accident.”

Lexa stills in the middle of the dance, brow furrowing.

Clarke continues, hastily. “I was actually getting ready to ask a friend who didn’t have a date, but then I turned around, and you were there, and--”

Lexa blinks, face becoming unreadable. “Oh.”

“Wait, wait,” Clarke pleads, because she can see the Lexa she’s gotten to know since slipping away. She grasps Lexa’s hands. “But I was so glad you said yes.”

Lexa looks at her again, the action almost mechanical, jerky.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve been brave. I wish I had been brave for you and asked you on my own. I never dreamed that you would say yes. I should’ve tried.”

Lexa releases a breath shakily. Clarke isn’t sure, but it sounds like _me, too_. “But you like me?” she whimpers, and it may be the most vulnerable Clarke has ever heard her sound.

“Yes. God, yes. I like you a lot, Lexa.” Clarke palms Lexa’s side and draws her in close. They’re almost touching foreheads. Clarke cups her cheek with her other hand, soothing away the burn of what Clarke realizes now is Lexa’s embarrassment. “I’m trying to be brave now. Will you go out with me?”

Lexa’s green eyes flick up to hers, lips parted slightly. She seems to struggle with words for a moment. Finally, she says, “Yes, Clarke. I would like that.”

Clarke smiles broadly at her.

Lexa pauses. “My turn now.”

Clarke is opening her mouth to ask what Lexa means when Lexa surges forward and kisses her.

Clarke is surprised at first, but quickly melts into her, angling her head and pressing toward her in earnest.

It’s tender and unmoving, still marked by nervousness with the other. They draw back after a few beats, exhaling through still-buzzing lips.

“Um,” Clarke says. “I don’t suppose Indra would let me take you out for ice cream after prom ends?”

**Author's Note:**

> Trigedasleng Translations  
> em pleni -- that's enough  
> nomon -- mother


End file.
